


Brief Encounter

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aggressive!John, But Obviously He knows, Lestrade-centric, Licking, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot, Public Sex, Strawberry Jam, They Think Sherlock Doesn't Know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Problem: I <b>cannot</b> write Greg and John in an established relationship.<br/>Solution: I can write a Greg/John PWP.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brief Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> _This takes place early--soon after ASiP, and of course, I'm ignoring Greg's S2 marriage, as we all should._

Very strange, this, thought Lestrade. Meeting up with John after work to see a film. Without Sherlock. No Sarah, either. No need to make a big fuss about it, though. No need to read anything into it. John likes David Lean films. So does Lestrade. So, fine. No problem. They will go see a film at the revival theater, and that's that. Clearly, absolutely, this is not a date or anything of the kind. Just two friends--well, not really friends--just two acquaintances out together for fun.

And this might be a good thing. Have a chance to talk to John in a casual way, without the genius butting in. I mean, let's face it, Lestrade and John are much more normal human beings than either of the Holmes brothers. They really should be friends, shouldn't they? No need to be concerned here at all.

Then why is Lestrade nervous? Why is there sweat on his upper lip on a perfectly lovely chilly evening, while he stands waiting for John to arrive at the theater?

Obviously, well, it's partly the whole jam incident. Strawberry jam. Lestrade's favorite. But that's all been forgotten by now. That happened three weeks ago. Ancient history. Of course John has forgotten it, even if Lestrade hasn't. Even if Lestrade has thought about it pretty much two dozen times a day since it happened.

Lestrade knows it was just a weird one-off thing. Really, just a freak occurrence. Obviously, something like that will not be happening again. Just some pent-up frustration with Sherlock on John's part, Lestrade is sure. Otherwise, there is no good explanation for the licking. No explanation for the licking or the kissing, in fact. Also a small amount of groping. Some people might not even call it groping, thinks Lestrade. However, Lestrade would call his own arse being squeezed very hard by John Watson, while the doctor's tongue was shoved a damn long way down Lestrade's throat‚--he would call that groping with a side of kissing. It is hard to see how all of that could be accidental or in any way not intended as something like, well, a sexual overture, right? That is just not normal friendly behavior between acquaintances, is it? Lestrade is pretty sure John was trying to tell him something.

But also pretty sure it is not going to happen again.

Nor should it.

But it was so fucking great, thinks Lestrade, before he can stop himself. They were just standing there in the kitchen, chatting and eating toast and strawberry jam together. Sipping their tea. Waiting for Sherlock to get back. And then John had looked at him and smiled such a wicked little smile before he leaned over and licked some jam off Lestrade's chin and then licked his lips. Lestrade's lips. Lestrade could still remember how fast his cock got hard when he felt John's tongue on his face--well, just instantly hard. And John knew it. Lestrade had seen John's eyes glance down, and then saw the smile get a little more wicked.

But, of course, to repeat, Lestrade does not want anything like that to happen again. He has to have some sense of self-preservation, right? Sherlock might possibly kill them both, in a very gruesome way, if he found out. Lestrade has been assuming Sherlock and John are more than flatmates by now. Sherlock, in Lestrade's experience, is a predatory and pretty insatiable bastard, and of course he would have gone after someone as likable (also lickable) and charming as John by now. The last thing Lestrade needs is to get into a situation where Sherlock is angry or jealous. No good work, no solved cases can come out of that. None.

Nope. It's decided. Lestrade does not want to get into a sexual tension, oh-my-god-I-want-to-fuck-you thing every time he sees John.

Except that he really does.

Want.

That.

A lot.

Lestrade really would like to get his tongue in John's gorgeous, thin-lipped, grinning little mouth again. Would like to get his hands on some actual skin instead of just grasping at that thick lumpy sweater the way he had done during the jam incident. Yes, there had been a few pretty fanfuckingtastic minutes of wet, passionate kissing and clutching at each other in that kitchen before they heard Sherlock bounding up the stairs two at a time. Then they had raced for opposite sides of the kitchen like some teenagers caught in the act. Lestrade himself had to sit at the damn table for twenty minutes waiting for his erection to disappear. Pretending to be really interested in finishing his toast. One crumb at a time. He should have gone flaccid within three minutes, but damn it if John didn't keep looking at him and licking his lips like some flirty little tart. Fortunately for everyone, Sherlock had flown immediately to the bathroom for half an hour to check on some goat lungs and entrails he had on ice in the bathtub. Thank God Sherlock was a complete nutter.

All right, thinks Lestrade, that is as far as those thoughts need to go right now. Especially since John will be showing up any minute, and Lestrade already has a raging hard-on just thinking about the bloody woolly jumper and the skin underneath. Shit.

This is stupid. John doesn't want to do anything anyway. He's a big fat tease. Also, he's a fine, sensible man. And he is clearly enthralled by Sherlock. Even if they aren't actually doing it. Yet.

Lestrade wishes he knew if they are or aren't. They probably are. Well, if they are, then why did John shove his fucking tongue down Lestrade's throat? Why did he grope him? Why did he invite him on this date? _Not a date. Not a date._ An outing of acqaintances. _Fuck._

 

* * * * *

Okay. So now here they are. John arrived late and they had to race into the theatre and take seats in the very back. But now everything is fine, and there is no sign whatsoever of any sexual tension‚ except on the screen.

And in Lestrade's trousers.

But no sign from John. What did Lestrade expect? John isn't going to try to hold his hand or something, obviously. Or try to taste him again. Although that would be very nice. Also nice would be if Lestrade could put his hand right there in John's lap. _Right there_. But he will absolutely not do that, because John wouldn't stand for that kind of nonsense.

Okay, the film is over, credits are rolling. Sad ending. The two lovers never get together‚ but that's surely the best for all concerned, thinks Lestrade. People need to control themselves. Do the right thing, like in the movies. Well, not like some movies. Not like _Fatal Atraction_. God, no. And who would be the crazy "other woman" here? Not Lestrade. Lestrade is not Glen Close. Lestrade wouldn't kill a rabbit. Sherlock would . . . . Better think about something else.

Time to go. But John is not moving. The entire theatre has emptied out, and they're still sitting there.

Lestrade hears John say, "So, I thought we could finish that kiss we started a few weeks ago."

Lestrade used to like how direct and right-to-the-point John is. Now, not so sure. What the hell is he talking about? How do you finish a kiss from three bloody weeks ago? Is he talking about just a kiss or does that mean something more, like . . .

Okay, clearly, he means something more, since John's tongue is practically curling around Lestrade's pancreas now. And . . . what the hell? John is trying to climb on top of Lestrade, knees squeezing into the seat on each side of Lestrade's thighs and pressing down on him. And breathing in these extremely arousing, kind of gravelly sighs.

Who the fuck does he think he is, just jumping on top of Lestrade like that? Not even asking!

And by the way, this feels ridiculously good.

Lestrade cannot breathe now except in little stolen gasps when John occasionally pulls his lips away from Lestrade's lips and bites at his neck. And now Lestrade's hands are on John's hips pulling him as tightly against his engorged--sorry, that's what it is, it's engorged--cock as possible.

But Lestrade still feels he should resist. Trevor Howard resisted. Lestrade is thinking this cannot happen right now and right here for so many reasons.

But it is happening.

"John, I . . . I think you have to stop. I'm going to . . . I think I'm going to come if you don't get off . . . I'm too close . . . we're in a theatre, for God's sake . . ."

"Then come. I want to _make_ you come."

_Fuck._

Lestrade's powers of resistance are only so strong. So now it's time to rationalize.

It's okay, thinks Lestrade. It's okay to do this in a public theatre where some projectionist and the ticket guy are probably listening or watching or both. And Sherlock probably knows exactly what's happening because he knows everything, but maybe he and John have worked this out. Maybe John's allowed to fuck acquaintances in theatres on Tuesday nights.

And this is okay because it's a completely natural thing to do. Not necessarily natural to do it like this, in a seat that's too small, and wearing all these clothes, but . . . it just feels so bloody good. And it is just this once. And the projectionist surely sees this kind of thing every day, and is bored and paying no attention. So they should just go ahead and do it.

Lestrade manages to wriggle one hand down the back of John's jeans, trying to get at least one, no, two fingers inside John, because now that this thing is really going to happen, and he really _wants_ it to happen, he also wants to hear Dr. Watson make some noise. Some really serious noise. Some loud squeal or moan. To hell with where they are or who might be listening.

  
John squeezes his knees hard against Lestrade's thighs and jerks forward when Lestrade manages to find the right spot with his fingers. And he does let out a kind of low groan that drives Lestrade more than a bit mad with desire.

Godammit, this would be so much easier if they were naked, thinks Lestrade. Lestrade has not tried to get off with all his clothes on in years, and he's forgotten how bloody complicated it is.

But he is willing to give it his best shot, so he buries his face against John's neck, trying to concentrate. He needs more skin, so one hand travels under John's jumper and shirt, scratching at the soft flesh of his back. Now Lestrade is sucking on John's short, delicious little neck. Lestrade stops clawing John's back and starts pawing John's erection as best he can through his jeans. John is keeping up his end of the bargain, molesting Lestrade's mouth with his tongue and squeezing his cock through his trousers. But finally, breathless, Lestrade thinks he just has to give up on this clothes-on strategy. Too frustrating. He reaches for John's flies, unzips, and shoves his hand into what proves to be a warm, sweaty, heavenly place.

 _Oh my god, yes_.

Lestrade's fingers slide into John's underwear and onto his slippery cock. Lestrade can't help but say it out loud, "Jesus, that is so much better."

And now he's grasping and squeezing, and listening to John's short, desperate breaths. John's hands are now in Lestrade's hair, pulling hard as he jerks sharply forward and back and comes in hot, thick spurts all over Lestrade's shirt.

Lestrade is all about the noise, so he loves those ecstatic curses John is whispering into his ear now.

Lestrade is pleased with his accomplishments tonight. Very pleased. He should write up an After Action Report and give himself high marks.

The film attendant, who sounds like a kindly, middle-aged woman with a serious smoking habit, calls down via loudspeaker. "Sorry to interrupt, but are you boys done there? I don't want to rush you, but you need to move it along. In about five minutes, we'll have to open the doors for the next show. And don't leave a mess, loves."

 _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck_ , thinks Lestrade. Despite the wanting and the yearning and the unbelievable pressure in his trousers, his anxiety takes over, and he says, "I . . . uh . . . we should go, John." Lestrade is already starting to think of how he is going to deal with covering the stain on his shirt and the bulge in his trousers when they exit the theater. Luckily he has a scarf and his raincoat, so that should be fine . . . that will work.

"You're going nowhere, until I finish you, Lestrade," says John as he kisses Lestrade hard again, and then climbs off the chair and kneels on the floor so he can pull Lestrade's zip open and free his cock.

Well.

_Nnghggggghhhh._

If John is already down there, Lestrade doesn't want to be rude. Clearly, five minutes is probably more than enough time, thinks Lestrade, since he is probably only ten seconds away from coming anyway.

He closes his eyes and waits impatiently for John's hand to grip him, but it doesn't happen. What is he waiting for, a starter's pistol? Is he some weirdo who wants Lestrade to beg him? And then Lestrade opens his eyes, and sees John grinning at him.

"This _might_ be the only time we do this, Greg. I want you to remember it, remember me--so calm down a minute, okay? Relax."

 _Calm down? Relax? Is he fucking kidding?_ The clock is ticking, doctor.

John starts gently, almost daintily kissing the head of Lestrade's penis. As if he's got five hours, not five minutes. Then he's licking the shaft messily as his hands travel up and down Lestrade's thighs a half dozen times, increasing their pressure with each stroke.

 

 _Yes, that feels_ . . . Lestrade can't really think of any words anymore. It feels very, very, very good. _So good._

But he can hear people talking in the lobby of the theatre now. And he has to laugh and break the spell of John's magic tongue for a moment, "Oh my god, John, you idiot! Just get on with it! I promise I'll remember."

John's lips are around Lestrade's cock now and he can tell John is smiling. Everything is so hot and wet. John's mouth and Lestrade's cock. Both so hot and wet. John is sweeping his tongue in circles and sucking and tightening his lips. Doing exactly what Lestrade has been thinking about every day for the last three weeks. Except that now he's pausing. __

_Please don't stop,_ thinks Lestrade. _I can't take it anymore._

John is now pulling Lestrade's trousers and boxers down to his knees. Lestrade's heart is racing even faster now because he feels cold and naked and exposed, and he can hear people laughing and chattering just behind the door--only twenty feet away. But now John is taking that surprisingly agile little mouth of his and licking Lestrade's thighs and the soft, vulnerable flesh around the base of his cock, rolling his balls in his palm, sliding a finger down just to tease his arsehole. And finally, he's going back to finish what he started. He's sucking again, sliding his lips up and down faster. Squeezing the base of Lestrade's length and twisting. And John is moaning--maybe the filthiest, loudest moan Lestrade has ever heard. And Lestrade is trying not to pull too hard at John's hair. But it's hard to resist.

_And oh, Christ! Finally. Finally. Finally._

*****

  
John was right. They only did it once. And it was certainly memorable.

And now, a few months later, John and Sherlock are definitely a couple. Lestrade knows that for sure, because Sherlock is in the habit of proving it in front of large groups of witnesses whenever he gets the chance.

And unexpectedly, Sherlock's scary brother Mycroft is not that scary when he's naked, and Lestrade is getting him naked as often as possible.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock probably don't quite understand why their boyfriends sometimes smile--well, in John's case, it's a stupid giggle--when a jar of strawberry jam is opened. But Sherlock seems intrigued by the question.

But Lestrade's not worried.

Well, maybe a little worried.

Bloody terrified.

But it was worth it.

 

 


End file.
